Cat and Mouse
by Scribbler
Summary: At night, Larxene stalks the halls of Castle Oblivion looking for something to distract her from memories of her Other and the life she no longer has. She finds the Riku Replica. Rated for violence and non-con. Larxene/Riku Replica.


**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except a suitcase full of dirty clothes and holiday gifts, and a rather interesting shaped bruise where a bicycle handlebar hit me in the chest.

**A/N:** This was originally an unfinished drabble posted by Xanthos Samurai on her LiveJournal, which she generously let me have my way with. Full credit should go to her for the idea.

**Continuity:** Kingdom Hearts: Chain of Memories

**Pairing/Characters:** Larxene/Replica Riku

**Rating:** M

**Length:** 3848 Words

**Warnings:** Disturbing themes and violence (well, it's Larxene – what did you expect?)

* * *

_**Cat and Mouse**_

© Scribbler, July/August 2008

(Original idea © Xanthos Samurai)

* * *

Larxene paces the nighttime halls of the Castle Oblivion. It's rare that any of them sleep well – the sound of a heart not beating in the middle of the night is enough to keep even the weariest Nobody awake.

So she wanders like a ghost through the bleak halls, not knowing what exactly it was she seeks. Larxene is far too pragmatic to seek solace and too proud to seek companionship. Killing the living doesn't bring the thrill it used to and she isn't desperate enough to seek out one of her cohorts for entertainment – like a mirror reflecting only another mirror, she finds nothing of interest in their emptiness. Their capacity for faking emotions is fun in daylight, but at night she needs something more substantial to occupy her frenetic mind. She needs something _else _…

"Oh _Riku_ …"

The Nymph's voice is a purr as she enters the corridor leading to the room where Vexen lets the Riku Replica stay. She knows it isn't the real Riku, of course. In fact, the Replica himself is the only one who _doesn't_ know his true nature, but it's all the more fun to allow him to labour under the delusion that he's real and actually matters.

"What do you want?"

Larxene's Other used to play with mice. She used them to test her reflexes and patience, watching them creep from their holes in barns whenever the clan stayed in the countryside, and then pouncing when there was still a chance they could bolt and reach safety. She was proud of her speed, especially compared to the other clan children, who spent their time playing instead of honing themselves. Her kunai became claws in her fists, tiny bodies skewered on them like hands collected to prove how many enemies you've killed during a big battle. She gave her trophies to the cats that were too slow to catch anything with her around, calling them her ninja kitties and watching them fastidiously clean blood from their jaws.

Larxene doesn't get the same kind of satisfaction from anything anymore, but she's reminded of the whiff of straw and twitchy little whiskers as the Replica watches her lurk in the shadows. How fortunate he, too, has strayed from his bolthole.

"Is that any way to greet your superior?" she asks lazily, eyes half-lidded but not with sleep. She enjoys the way he glares at her with distrust. It makes her feel powerful and in control instead of constantly deferring to Marluxia and whoever of the Big Six deign to visit them here.

"What do you want?" the Replica asks again, narrowing his gaze.

"To stare into your beautiful eyes," she croons, coming closer. The corridor is wide and white, like a blank soul waiting to receive its stains of darkness. Every soul has some – except for those prissy princesses' of course. Larxene has no desire to meet someone so boring. "They're like periwinkles and clear ocean waters. Open them wide for me."

The Replica _doesn't_ take a step backwards.

Her smile shows teeth. A distraction indeed.

"Have you been sneaking into Naminé's room? Tut-tut." She wags a finger. "Naughty boys get no cake, and someone else blows out all their birthday candles."

Clones don't have birthdays, but if they did he'd be only a few weeks old. Larxene considers creating an imaginary birthday for him. There's a lot you can do with hot wax and tiny flames, not to mention the possibilities presented by dessert forks and balloons.

He looks like he wants to turn on his heel and mutter something about not having time for this, but Vexen has drilled into him about social hierarchy and he respects her – doesn't like her, but at least (resentfully) acknowledges her position as higher than his.

"I don't know why you bother, Riku. You know she doesn't feel anything for you, but you persist in your strange attachment to her. It's rather sad, really. You're a little puppy trailing after the leg it wants to hump and getting kicked all the time."

His eyes flash, becoming stormy. Larxene has never been to a tropical world before. She wonders if that's the colour of the sky when a typhoon hits and smashes everything to close to the shoreline. The Replica's eyes reflect the world he never came from.

Abruptly, she wonders what he own eyes reflect – her Other's homeworld, or just everything she sees as she is now, like any other Nobody's mirror-against-mirror eyes?

The Replica still doesn't take a step backwards. A proper brave little mousey. Larxene stretches her claws. He respects her, but still pulls away when she lays them on his shoulder. He thinks he's real and she's a Nobody. He thinks he's _human,_ while she is something … less than that, and her less-than-human touch repulses him.

She was born. He was created. Her cells may only be half of what they used to be, but at least they weren't grown in a Petri dish. That makes her more human than he'll ever be, and more alive as well. She's flesh and blood and dreams and spittle. He's just a chunk of fleshy black mist and whatever else Vexen put into him to make him solid. She _can't_ be worth less than a glorified puddle of gunk and disgusting teenage-boy memories.

Teenage boys are always disgusting. It's part of having hormones. Did Vexen remember to inject a hypodermic of _those_ when he made the Replica?

She follows his movement faster than he can avoid, digging her fingers into his shoulder. "You could always trail after me instead. I'm not quite so delicate as a rose petal, and white isn't really my colour, but I'm blonde and I'm the right shape."

"Let go of me," the Replica growls – actually _growls_ at her.

"So presumptuous. Little mousey has no manners."

"What?"

"Tell me, little mousey, do you like cheese?"

"_What_?" His expression is halfway between confusion and irritation. He tries to shrug her off, but she digs in further, producing a beautifully formed wince that folds the skin between his eyes like a white-capped wave licking a sandbar. If Vexen had made him with the capability of maturing, he'd be a real looker when he grows up, but the Replica won't ever see adulthood. He'll be dead long before then, whether from unstable molecules like the prototypes that came before him, or by some other means. He has a habit of pissing off those more powerful than himself just by existing.

"Actually, that's a myth. Mice don't like cheese at all. Their favourite food is peanut butter, or chocolate. They're wiling to brave mousetraps _and_ cats for a bite of chocolate." Larxene sighs. "Alas and alack, we have no chocolate, and Marluxia can't stand the smell of peanut butter. Maybe I'll ask Axel to smuggle some in for me. You can come out of your hole for a taste and sit in my lap to eat it. Would you like that, little mousey?" Her voice sing-songs and her face keeps a bright smile, in total counterpoint to the ever increasing pressure of her fingers. She can feel the Replica's collarbone grind and wonders how far he'll let this go. How much stock has Vexen put on social boundaries and obedience?

Not as much as he probably thinks, the old stuffed-shirt. Vexen is another mousey who thinks he's quicker than he is.

The Replica's wince turns to a grimace and his temper breaks with a silent thunderclap. He swings a punch, heavy as a falling palm tree, which she sidesteps with ease. He thinks he's broken free, but actually she's just let go so the real fun can start.

He doesn't even see her backhand coming, nor the roundhouse that smashes him against the wall. He starts to slide down, but she catches him with a forearm across the throat, holding him up and choking him at the same time – multitasking! Women are supposed to be good at multitasking, and Larxene is the only woman in the Organisation (Naminé has no curves and no cruelty, so she can't be a real woman, just a silly girl). The Replica barely stands a chance against centuries of finely bred multitasking genes.

"Little mousey doesn't know his place," Larxene murmurs, bringing her nose close to his. His nostrils flare as he struggles for breath. He has _freckles_, even though he's never seen sunlight before! He's never left the castle, but he still has these telltale signs of an outdoorsy life. She makes to touch them with her other hand.

He draws his knees up to kick her off, but she catches one of his ankles and twists it. The sharp snap signals a clean break, and the howl trapped under her arm tells her she hasn't lost her touch. Killing silently, undetectably and quickly is a ninja's trademark, but she's bored and tired and _not_ her Other

"See? Eventually every mousey gets too bold and becomes a cat's supper."

The Replica can't answer. His face is twisted up and his breath rattles. His pupils dilate – she watches the signs of Vexen's craftsmanship at work. Adrenaline surges through him, plus all manner of other things that keep him conscious. Finally she releases him and he falls with a collection of gasps – one for air, one when his broken ankle jolts, one when he lands on his side, and another when she kneels on his chest.

"I could be completely cliché and tell you to squeak for me at this point. I like this metaphor."

"Wh-why …?" The Replica trails off, coughing with pain. "What's g-going …"

"On? I'm bored, Riku. I think I have insomnia. It's a symptom of a condition commonly known as heartlessness. Doctors say relief can be incurred through distraction and recreational pursuits. Or was that Vexen who said that? He's a scientist, which is _kind_ _of_ like a doctor." She taps her chin with one finger. "Or perhaps I just made that up. I'm self-medicating."

"You're nuts. We're on the same side."

"Oh, now you've gone and made me cross." She reaches for one of his hands and strokes the back of it. His face has gone pale against the pain in his ankle. "Looks like you need some distraction and recreational pursuits as well."

His eyes are still blue like the sea, but now they're more like an arctic ocean than the tropics. "I have a heart," he grits, intending it like a slap in the face.

She knows. She can feel the pulse in his wrist. She doesn't need to touch her own neck to know she doesn't have one. Nobodies can die, but they're worse than cockroaches – it takes more to kill them than it takes to kill a human. She's never wanted to test it, but she suspects even cutting her throat wouldn't have her life pouring out of her because she's animated by more than a heartbeat propelling blood around her body. Probably only magic can finish them off – magic and bad dreams and tipping the balance into darkness that consumes them or light that burns them up. Axel once called the Organisation a bunch of dead bodies who can't accept they're dead, and sometimes she believes it too. How else are they able to walk, talk, speak, and do everything they can when their chests echo?

"Yes," she purrs to the Replica, "you do." And she breaks his wrist. "There now. That distracted you from your ankle, didn't it?"

He can't answer. She's wiggling the broken wrist around, and all the colour has drained from his face. He's stronger than a human, too, which makes this all the more fun. He tries to punch her with his other arm, but the pain has robbed him of his strength. He looks like he's about to pass out, so she stops, but only so she can pull him upright and half-drag, half-carry him through the open door to his room.

It's austere in here, still white, but with only the basic necessities. Vexen doesn't look on the Replica as more than a tool, and what tool needs luxury?

Larxene yanks the Replica up and tosses him onto the bed with the exceptional strength of a Nobody (dead men tell no tales, but dead girls with no hearts can smash the mouth that tries to tell them). Her rough treatment indicates that the clumsy way she dragged him in here was just to bump his ankle over the threshold. The little twerp isn't sounding too full of himself now, while her voice is still vibrant as a new day full of sunbeams and twittering birdies.

"Now for the recreational pursuits," she says, regarding him closely. She goes to close the door, knowing he'll roll off the bed and try to attack her from behind. She punts him backwards with an elbow to the gut. "I'm surprised you can still jump with that ankle. I suppose that's just what makes us who we are – freaks and anomalies and cast-offs all."

"You're a complete sicko."

"You're making me cross again."

"Don't try that kind of baloney with me. I know you can't feel."

"Not experiencing emotions isn't the same as not being able to _feel_. For example." She whirls and grabs him by the throat; forcing him back onto the mattress and holding him down so hard the white sheets encircle his face like quicksand trying to eat him alive. She tugs at her other glove, pulling it off with her teeth, and runs her index finger from his hairline to the tip of his nose, over his impossible smattering of freckles. "I can _feel_ the difference between cartilage and bone. If I wanted, I could _feel_ which bits would splinter and which bits would go pulpy if I applied enough pressure."

His eyes go wide, not with pure hatred, but with fear. The pain from his wrist and ankle, not to mention his bruised throat, make him apprehensive of yet more pain. It's a brief acknowledgement of his own frailties before his stubbornness chases it out of his face, but it satisfies her. He's not better than her after all. In fact, despite all his enhancements, he's actually kind of weak; a weak little mousey waiting for the claws to piece its exposed belly.

Well, it'd be _rude_ to disappoint.

She takes some of the weight off his throat so he can breathe, gives him a second, and then covers his mouth with her own. It's not a kiss in the truest sense of the word; it's an act of dominance, culminating in a short yelp when she bites down hard on his lower lip. It bleeds a little when she pulls back, not unclenching her teeth so she tears a thin strip off. He tastes of copper and balmy days and black dust – tastes a lot like that enemy ninja who once fell on her Other and bled into her mouth, actually. Vexen did a pretty good job. Maybe the old coot has a couple of kinks nobody ever knew about, to make the clone _taste_ as real as he _looks_.

She straddles him. He goes for her stomach with his good hand, still fighting when it's clear he's still conscious mostly through obstinacy, so she headbutts him and leaves a lovely red mark in the centre of his forehead. This she touches, cooing about unicorns and legends from her homeworld about horses with one horn in the centre of their foreheads, who ran wild and skewered any warriors who tried to catch them. Legend has it unicorns couldn't be subjugated by force, because they wee too wily and fierce, and far, far too proud to wear the harnesses, bridles and saddles of common horses. They could only be tamed by pure virgin girls, who sat in woodland glades where the unicorns couldn't help but lay down beside them and put their heads quietly in these girls' laps. The wildest of stallions would follow a girl like this right into the stable yard, and stand watching her adoringly as the blacksmith shod and tainted his hooves with iron, the metal poisonous to fairiefolk, so he could never leave the human world and return to the woods.

"So is Naminé your pure virgin girl, Riku? Is she the one sent to tame you?"

"You leave Naminé alone!" His gaze is slightly unfocussed. Hm, maybe she gave him a concussion.

"So protective. So caring. So … pathetic. Are you angry because you know he's not even real? Not a real girl at all, just a dolly Marluxia plays tea parties with."

"Shut up!"

"Or is it because you know she's not so pure? She's capable of some pretty nasty things behind that pretty face. Or is it," Larxene says with relish, "because you know she's not a virgin?"

The Replica bucks beneath her, trying to throw her off and crying out when it joggles his injuries. Larxene laughs out loud.

"Rikuuuuuuu! You _dog_! Is that why you were out of your room so late at night? I've discovered your little seeeeecreeeet."

"You're wrong," he spits, eyes swimming with pain and befuddlement. "You're sick and wrong, just some heartless bitch who like to torture people because she can't feel anything herself. You think you enjoy causing pain, but you can't enjoy anything. You're nothing but a – hhhrk!"

"That," Larxene says, dangerously cheerful, "was a very stupid way to react. Little mousey should only squeak when it's sure it's out of the cat's reach. You're not very smart, are you, Riku?"

In truth, she knows he's not been into Naminé's rooms. He wouldn't. Probably he was abroad tonight because he was _checking _on her, making sure she's _safe. _Like the original Riku, the Replica is full of highbrow ideas of heroism and chivalry. He sees Naminé as something too pure for this place, someone worth protecting in a nest of vipers. He thinks it's the only reason he stays. He doesn't even _realise_ he was _made_ for that purpose. He has no free will. Sick, wrong, heartless Larxene has more free will than Vexen's vaunted puppet.

She pinches a very special nerve in his neck. He shudders once, and then sprawls beneath her like wet spaghetti. His eyes register hateful fear again, as he tries to move and can't. It only intensifies as she takes off her other glove and tips his head back to examine his throat, summoning a kunai and bringing it close. She hovers there, seemingly indecisive. The power is intoxicating – or it was the last time her Other did it. Larxene feels a twinge way back in her head, but the memory of emotion isn't nearly the same as having the real thing prickle through her.

"Poor little mousey," she says. "This cat has claws."

However, instead of opening his jugular she slits the ridiculous costume that covers him from the neck down, exposing the curve of his throat. He makes a few odd noises as she bites and suckles, and she discovers that yes, that old pervert Vexen _did_ make him with teenage boy hormones.

He cries, though that might be a reaction to the chunks she carves out of his chest as she goes, trying to heighten the experience. Sex without emotion is unsatisfying, and nothing she does to spice it up can make it so. The Replica's functional white sheets become progressively redder with each splash, trickle and blood-spattered attempt, but it's just a pair pf pelvises knocking together like bones rattling on a gamekeeper's gibbet. When he comes there are tears everywhere and he's murmuring something she has to lean close to hear, still pumping her hips.

"Na … Nami … né."

He's too realistic a teenage boy for Larxene to come too. It's over once he's spent, and she's bored again anyway. The brief distraction of asserting herself can't be sustained when he's so broken and pathetic and she's still so strong and cold. Memories of her Other curled up in her lover's arms (killed by Heartless, ripped away suddenly and terribly as the darkness took her and left her hollow and different) don't help. She can't ever have that post-coital glow again, and can't even hate who she used to be for experiencing it first and so letting her know what she's missing.

She climbs off the Replica, takes her time pulling clothes onto her lower body, and then picks him up in a parody of the hero carrying the sleeping princess over the drawbridge. Vexen will ask what happened to him, but she'll just say she was testing his combat limits. He encouraged them to do that, and he won't care as long as she points out any weak spots for him to improve when he takes the clone off to the labs to fix him up. He's much more resilient against damage than a regular human, so in spite of all she's done, she knows he won't die before Vexen gets hold of him, and Marluxia will turn a blind eye to anything Larxene has done to stop herself going mad. The stained bed will be replaced and, if she's unlucky, he'll roll his eyes at her.

Naminé sits bolt upright when Larxene kicks open her door. Her bed is white as well, but she has an ornate headboard and a vanity table that communicate how much more important she is than the Replica. Her already pale face matches the walls, as Larxene marches over and dumps the bloody collection of limbs and rags on the sheets in front of her. He's heavy enough to make Naminé bounce, and she squeaks with shock at the state of him.

"R-Riku?"

He groans in pain and embarrassment. Larxene didn't dress him properly, but Naminé keeps her eyes staunchly on his face before raising them to meet Larxene's. She doesn't bother asking why. It's been weeks. She knows by now it'd be useless.

"So what do you think, little witch? Is he a mouse or a unicorn?"

Naminé doesn't understand. And why would she? She never seems to have trouble sleeping, and if memories of her Other's life bother her, she never shows it. Naminé is even more a tool than the Replica, only not as fun to torment. Not even Marluxia would turn a blind eye to his Nymph damaging _her_.

Larxene sneers. "Fix his head. Make him think we were just fighting. I can't be bothered explaining myself to that arrogant shithead, Vexen. But next time, make that thing," she indicates the Replica, "less nauseatingly righteous. I told you that before but you left it in. It's boring, and we both know you're not worth it."

Namine looks at what the other Nobody has done, clicks her jaws shut and nods once. It might be agreement to do as she's been asked, or it might be agreement that she _isn't_ worth the Replica's blind devotion.

Larxene smiles. There's less warmth in it than if she'd stored it in the fridge first. "Good girl." Then she looks out the window at the lightening sky, ignoring how Naminé pulls the Replica's ruined clothes to cover him as best they can. "Oh goodie, sunrise. A new day." And the end of yet another sleepless night.

Having scraped the mouse off her claws to feed to a different kind of cat than lived in the barns of her Other, Larxene turns on her heel and stalks away to find new distractions. Repeated lack of sleep can drive anyone a little batty, but with the lives they lead, maybe that's not such a bad thing.

* * *

_**Fin.**_

* * *


End file.
